I

GENTLEMEN,

TO THE EDITORS.

SEND you a small production of the late Dr. GOLDSMITH, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called, "The Humours of Balamagairy," to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words: but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewel. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate care.

I am, GENTLEMEN,

Your humble servant,

JAMES BOSWELL.

SONG,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."

Ан me! when shall I

marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover; She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

STANZAS

ON THE

TAKING OF QUEBEC.

AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice;

And quells the raptures which from pleasures start.

Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

ЕРІТАРН

ON

DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;

And heav'n, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPITAPH

ON

EDWARD PURDON1.

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world-
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

1 This gentleman was educated at Trinity-college, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's HENRIADE.